In Which King Uther is a BatThing
by Darth Tater
Summary: Their favorite of the trained dogs was the one who could use a crossbow.


So I definitely didn't actually write this. My sister tends to write things for me, and this is just the first time I'm actually posting it. If anyone likes it I can put up some more of her things because I think they're just hilarious.

If anyone gets the reference to the fandom that isn't Doctor Who, you can have a free prompt, because I'll like you better.

I own Merlin. He came with the building.

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In Which King Uther is a Bat-Thing

The next time they all went hunting, all Gwen and Morgana could talk about was the circus performers who had been in Camelot recently. The Turkish strong man had seemed a giant (though after he had gotten drunk and challenged and been subsequently soundly beaten by Arthur in a duel, it was clear that at least some of that was padding, a bit of it was lifts in his boots, and none of it was ability) the bearded woman astonishing (though after _she_ had gotten drunk it became clear that the "woman" matter was a bit of an exaggeration) the dwarves hilariously diverting, the trick riders admittedly impressive, and the trained animals astonishing. Merlin's favorite feature of the traveling exhibition had been the accomplishments of the circus houndsmaster, a man who, despite his eerily cold stare and the cruelty the boy thought he heard in whips and leashes in the kennels later that evening, could certainly train dogs. There was one who could fetch and decant bottles of wine, one who could jump through hoops and then fling them at another dog, who caught them, and one who could pick out a white chicken from a pen of black ones without hurting or alarming any of them.

Merlin's and even Arthur's favorite, however, had been a fluffy, excitable golden retriever who seemed to love his trick almost as much as he loved being petted and talked to, the latter two treatments seeming to annoy his trainer to no end. The dog had been trained to approach loaded crossbows, balance them on rocks or whatever was handy, and fire the bolts directly at the center of the targets. Merlin couldn't get over the ingenuity of the dog to be able to figure out how to adjust the bows correctly every time (especially when he could never seem to fire an arrow straight himself, never mind that he wasn't _quite_ strong enough to load most crossbows himself anyway) Arthur wondered whether he could form an army of retrievers to shoot at his enemies, Morgana had always wanted a dog of her very own but they had always seemed so stupid and unfriendly, unlike this one, always barking and growling and backing away as if they knew something about her that she didn't, and Guinevere thought he was the sweetest, fluffiest, dearest thing she had ever met, and wasn't he a good dog, yes he was, would he like a treat, of course he would. Arthur had offered the houndsmaster a quite princely sum (Arthur smacked the side of Merlin's head when he called it that, but it was a lot of money) for the dog, but the refusal had been swift, repeated, and incontrovertible. Morgana was even on the point of dognapping him, but they left before the sun rose and she had never really been a morning person.

So it was with rather some shock that they found the dog lying whimpering and injured on the edge of the path on their hunting trip, several days' ride out from Camelot, several weeks later. Gwen and Morgana instantly cooed and lamented his dry, warm nose, cuts and bruises, and injured paw. He was in a bad state, and Merlin, who didn't really want to go into the wilderness and shoot deer and things anyway (Arthur had seemed rather determined of late to make him into at least as good a bowman as a_dog_, because for heaven's sake, what kind of idiot was his servant?) was compelled to stay behind with Gwen and nurse the poor creature back to health. It seemed he had gotten a gigantic thorn caught in his paw, which had led to infection, illness, whimpering, and in general the kind of behavior that the cruel circus trainer apparently couldn't tolerate. So the dog had seemingly just been abandoned.

The party camped there for several days, after which Uther and his older knight-guards noticed, with some irritation, that Arthur and Morgana were rather too distracted with worry about the dog to actually hunt, which was the point of this trip. Uther didn't even get to give his usual sweeping political lectures with deer, wolves, hunting dogs, and rabbits as metaphors for coexisting citizenry and evil foxes as metaphors for magic-users when they were out together. Arthur was too busy wondering whether, if the dog lived and came back to Camelot with him, he could imitate the training in his own pack, because wouldn't that be something? The same thing happened when he went out with his ward and tried, as was his wont on hunting trips, to talk about some of his softer convictions about family and a woman's role in the domestic and how important it was to make an advantageous marriage for _love_, but not just for love, and ask how her reading was going. Morgana was too distracted by the soft warmth that rested in her chest to think that _this_ animal didn't hate her, and maybe she could finally have a pet that wasn't stupid like all of the other noblewomen's canaries and annoyingly garrulous parrots and obese cats that left hair on her gowns like they looked better that way. This dog's shedding didn't bother her.

Uther decided this trip was a wash with that silly dog here, so they may as well all return to Camelot with what they had caught before encountering the animal. That didn't stop them from talking all the way back about the significantly improved creature, who was sitting in front of Merlin on his horse (Arthur had wanted to carry the dog, but he didn't quite fit with all of the armor and sword and shield his horse also had to carry, and one glance at his father told the prince that those things were absolutely _not_ optional, even on a safe hunting trip not far from home). The dog had tried feebly to growl when he was placed on the saddle in front of Merlin, as though protesting that he was much better now, look he could wag his tail, and could he please walk instead? Gwen had laughed fondly, swaddling him carefully and calling him her sweet little dragon. Merlin, who knew dragons, laughed too and wished they were actually sweet.

It wasn't until, just a few hours from Camelot, the four of them were debating what to name the dog while Uther was trying to talk to them (well, to Arthur and Morgana anyway; the servants didn't really bear noticing) that the king finally put his foot down.

"What should we call it?" Morgana began, a shifty look in her eyes. Someday, it would be like a smirk, but for now, she was still friends with everyone. Merlin didn't like that shifty look at all.

"Darrell, the dragon?" proposed Gwen. Uther tried to cut in.

"How about Smokey?" suggested Arthur blandly, clearly not hearing as his father attempted to speak again.

"Perhaps… Puff," said Merlin, spitting out dog hair as the king rode up next to them, voice rising in pitch but not volume.

"Ganos Lal," said Morgana quietly, and Merlin went still at the Old Religion name. Fortunately, Uther had also gone still.

The king could be imposing and frightening when he wanted to, and he said through gritted teeth, a soft steel edge to his voice, "Forget the shooty dog thing!"

After that, they were all a little frightened, and listened in dutiful silence as the king rambled on for a few hours, a satisfied look on his face.

In the end, they almost called the dog Leonine, after his golden, maned appearance, but decided to name him after Arthur friend and one of his favorite knights instead. And that's how Merlin and Gwen became jointly responsible for the dog Kaynine.

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Review Please?

And yes, the entire thing really was a setup for having Uther tell them to forget the shooty dog thing.


End file.
